


Somewhere In This Mess (There was us)

by vanillascribble



Category: GOT7
Genre: Food Porn, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-30
Updated: 2017-12-24
Packaged: 2018-12-08 22:15:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11655807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vanillascribble/pseuds/vanillascribble
Summary: Orphaned at a young age, Mark has never stayed at one place long enough to feel like he belonged anywhere while Jinyoung preferred hiding behind book covers and nondescript sunglasses, withering in the darkness. One day their worlds collide. This is a story about a boy searching for a place to call home and a boy who sees the world in monochrome.





	1. The Boy Who Could Eat Up the Whole Universe

**Author's Note:**

> This started out as a vignette about Jinyoung watching Mark eat pizza in semi-darkness—that’s the image I had when the story first came to me. Now, it seems like I couldn’t quell Mark’s voice until his full story is out from my head.

 

"Run, run, lost boy," they say to me,  
"Away from all of reality."

 

-Lyrics taken from _**Lost Boy**_ by Ruth B-

 

 

 

 

 

Mark Tuan is a non-conformist when it comes to being consistent. Consistency is the way the earth rotates counterclockwise from the west towards east. Consistency is the fact that the rotation occurs once every 24 hours with respect to the sun, and once every 23 hours, 56 minutes and four seconds with respect to the stars. But Mark’s world stopped being consistent one night in July when he was shaken awake by his next-door neighbour 23 minutes and 52 seconds past two in the morning.

As the blue and red headlights swathed his bedroom, he wiped sleep away from his eyes and struggled into a sitting position, wondering if he was being abducted by aliens, and if they would let him bid goodbye to his parents first, before they take him away to their planet which he doubts would be visible from earth. He bet they didn’t have television channels with reruns of The Simpsons either, and oh, how he would miss that. He wondered if the aliens have pets, and if they would let him have peanut butter and jelly sandwich every Friday morning because he couldn’t bear the thought of never ever having any peanut butter and jelly sandwich on an unfamiliar planet— _that would just suck._

He shrugged a jacket atop his Starfleet pyjamas, searched under the bed for his limited-edition silver and blue U.S.S Enterprise Converse, the one that his dad brought home three months ago. He was too careful to wear them much, treasuring the sneakers like he did Bambam, his white-faced Roborovski dwarf hamster that was sleeping peacefully in its blue hamster ball beside his pillow.

He followed kind Mrs. Green to the front door, and he wondered if the aliens would allow her to return home, because old Mr. Green is almost a hundred years old (he didn’t know for sure how old he is, but he looked to be a hundred, so a hundred it is) and he didn’t think Mr. Green would take too kindly of having his wife kidnapped by aliens. Unless the aliens leave a clone of Mrs. Green on earth so that she could sit out on the front lawn with him every Sunday morning and keep Mr. Green company as he trims the rose bushes that wrapped themselves up and around the arbour. _Hmm, would they leave another Mark too? And another Bammie? Would Mom be able to tell?_

 

Outside more adults were waiting, huddling around in the shadows and talking in hushed voices. He looked around for the saucer-shaped spaceship but there wasn’t any. Instead, he saw the silhouette of two men in uniforms, their silver badges glinting in the darkness. He caught the word LAPD written across the patrol car and instinctively took a step back. He wanted to go back inside, climb under his blanket and go back to dreaming of far away planets floating around in space. Before he could do so, one of the officers approached him and kneeled down so that they were on the same eye level. The officer placed both hands on his shoulders and began to explain something to him, in a language that sounds like Vulcan, but it didn’t matter because he understands Vulcan, and oh, how he wished he could unlearn the language. He didn’t want to be able to understand what the officer was saying, but he nodded his head anyway when he was asked whether he understood what has happened and is about to happen.

 

 

Two hours later, Mark sat on his bed holding Bambam, feeling the hamster’s miniature feet digging into his palm as the lady with coiffed blonde hair began to pack his stuffs. She introduced herself earlier as Ellen, and she works for the County’s Child Protective Services. She’ll be taking him to somewhere safe, she said. _Somewhere safe, does that even exist anymore?_ —Mark wondered, as Bambam nuzzled at his neck.

“Mark, do you want to bring this along?” She asked as she held his baseball glove in one hand.

He shook his head. His father sure could throw a mean curveball, but there’s no one to play catch baseball with now.

He hugged Bambam tighter to his chin, laid his head on the bed and closed his eyes. _This isn’t happening—Mom? I wanna wake up now, please? Mom, where are you? Please wake me up now. I swear I’ll finish all my homework and bring the rubbish out Monday morning—Mom?...Mommy??_

All that greeted him was the soft rumblings of a stranger going through his stuffs and picking out things she thought he might need in order to live with more strangers. Silence would be much better, he thought.

 

He stared for one last time at his family home; memorised the smell of bacon and fried eggs that wafted from the kitchen on Sunday mornings, his dad mixing pancake batter near the stove-top and his mum laughing at something he just said, her hands busy chopping up some fresh strawberries to be mixed into his favourite blueberry yogurt.

Then the front door closed, and as Ellen edged him towards the waiting car, he knew that next Sunday the house would be devoid of all its familiar scenes, sounds and scents. He knew this because even if he had stayed in that house, things would never be the same—because that night, his parents never returned from their anniversary dinner at that fancy restaurant in Calabasas, the one with the fairy lights strung up all over its pretty French windows. He forgot the name of the restaurant, but he remembered the fairy lights. The policed said their car went over a cliff when it skidded along a winding road uphill. By the time help arrived, there were no survivors—and since his parents were both the only child, with his grandparents long gone, the LA County will take him in. Take him in—he thought, like how he took Bambam home from the pet store at the mall. As the car pulled away from the kerb, he raised a hand to his cheek—it still felt warm from his mother’s kiss less than four hours ago.

Less than four hours—that’s all it took for his world to tumble down like a house of cards.

 

   
Bambam's whiskers tickled his palm and he stared at Ellen's silhouette, as she drove in the semi-darkness.

“Do you mind if I turn on the radio?” She asked when they stopped at a red light.

He simply shrugged— _it didn’t matter. Nothing seemed to matter anymore._ He wished the aliens would come take him away and lobotomise his brain or do whatever it is that they do with kids like him. But the aliens didn’t arrive, and ten minutes later, he drifted to sleep to the faint strain of Nat King Cole singing Unforgettable on the car's radio;

 

 _Unforgettable, that's what you are_  
_Unforgettable though near or far_  
_Like a song of love that clings to me_  
_How the thought of you does things to me_  
_Never before has someone been more_  
_Unforgettable in every way_  
_And forever more, that's how you'll stay_

  
Since then, about the only thing that rotates in Mark’s universe is loneliness. So he scoffed at the idea; became the antithesis to all things consistent.

 

 

* * *

 

He just turned ten years (and thirteen days old) when he laid the wilting bouquet of calla lilies atop the fresh mounds of earth which swallowed the two persons in the world that mattered to him. He stayed there between the two of them long after the service ended and the crows were circling above, the skies painted with clusters of far away non-existent stars. It began to rain, pit patter upon the silent earth but he remained there, unmoved.

“Mark, we have to go now—come along.”

Ellen’s voice floated from behind him. An umbrella hung above his head, but he wished she would take it away—he needed to feel the rain.

“Do you think they’re cold?” He asked.

“…I—I don’t know, kiddo..”

“Mom hated the rain. That’s why she and daddy moved here from Seattle after they got married—so we’d always be warm, she said. I think she’s cold now..”

“…I’ll be waiting at the car, okay? Say your goodbyes.”

“Didn’t you hear me? I said Mom’s cold..why must it rain today, anyway?”

“Don’t be like this, Mark.”

“Make—make the rain stop, Ellen.”

“…”

**“I SAID MAKE IT STOP!!”**

“…Mark, you’re just making this harder on yourself—”

“Just stop— _please, just..”_

“…”

“Just stop.”

“...Look, I’ll let them know that we’re running late, okay? But you can’t be too long— we have to leave before it gets dark.”

Ellen walked away, her footsteps squishy on the soft meadow and Mark wanted to ask— _how could this be any easy?_ No one has ever taught him how to feel after having buried both his parents at ten-years-old. No one has ever warned him that one day his life as he knows it might end out of the blue, and he’d be left alone on his own to deal with the ensuing loneliness and uncertainty. He clawed at the ground, wishing he could dig a hole and bury himself too and just sleep it off and forget all this.

But he has Bambam waiting for him, Bambam whose cheeks would fill up like balloons from the pumpkin seeds and walnuts that he was munching on, Bambam who would be running endlessly in his hamster wheel, never reaching the finish line. Bambam who liked to climb all over him and search for a shirt-pocket that he could crawl into and sleep in. Bambam who needed him. So he forced himself to stand up, wipe the mud from his trousers and trudge over to where Ellen was waiting.

 

Ellen was nice, as nice as she could be towards an orphan whose life has turned upside down. She was warm, but there’s a certain seriousness that coloured her cerulean eyes as she went about her work. No matter how tired she was, her blonde hair would remain coiffed up and a perpetual fragrance of jasmine and musk surrounded her—that was what Mark remembered most about her. Just jasmine and musk, and perhaps some essential oils which he couldn't name or identify. But he scrubbed that thought from his memory when the front door of the foster home closed in on him, Ellen bidding him farewell and mouthing _good_ luck, as if he would need it— _lots of it._ The days that came after were all blurry after that.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

"Hi—I'm Jackson! I'm nine and I collect these Pokemon cards, you see, and I wonder if you happen to like them too? We could trade and I could— Ohhh! Is that a hamster in your pocket? Can I please hold him?" A shorter boy with expectant eyes approached him, trying to peek into his shirt pocket at the sleeping Bambam.

"Jackson! Don’t bother him." A taller boy with twin dots atop his left eye came close and pulled Hi-I'm-Jackson away from him.

"But—but it’s been an hour and he's so...quiet. Do you think he's mute?"'

"It's only been 15 minutes—and you're being nosy."

"Awww JB, I just wanna be friends. It’s been two weeks since Brownie's gone and now I have no one to play tag with—you only play with the kitchen's cat. Plus, he has a hamster!" Hi-I’m-Jackson blurted it out as if that should explain everything, but the taller boy continued to be wary of him.

"So hey, wanna be friends?" Hi-I'm-Jackson turned his attention back to him, his hand stretched out in a hopeful handshake.

Mark simply looked past him, past the boy with the twin dots atop his eyelid and past the yucky window decorated with mustard-coloured curtains that probably came from Walmart's Black Friday sale.

"Psssttt, JB—I think he's blind..."

"..."

"Hey, erm...newbie—can you see me?" Hi-I'm-Jackson waved a Squirtle plushie in front of him.

Mark leaned against the wall and closed his eyes. Hi-I'm-Jackson is too warm, too cheerful—too alien from what was happening to him.

"Let's go, Jackson. I guess he doesn’t need friends."

The taller boy began dragging Hi-I'm-Jackson away from him and Mark bit at his lips. The younger boy glanced back over his shoulder and sent a small sad wave with his free hand. From inside his pocket, Bambam stirred awake and began to peek out from his shirt pocket, its tiny nose scrunched up and its whiskers twitching, as if trying to tell him something. Mark picked him up, placed him on his palm and scrubbed at the top of its head— _Seems like I only have you now, little buddy_. He took out a macadamia nut cookie wrapped in a tissue from his other pocket, bit into it and fed some to Bambam. Since that day, Mark’s appetite knew no boundaries.

Soon news began to spread about the scrawny new kid with enormous appetite; the one who ate everything in sight and carried his dwarf hamster everywhere he went. For when Mark eats, he could really eat. He could finish a dozen pancakes with an extra dollop of cream and still ask for one or two more stacks of the same. He went through a loaf of chocolate-cream bread like how kids went through puberty; fast and furious. He would scoop five sunny side ups for breakfast, layer them with two cans worth of baked beans and a plate of grilled tomatoes, and the entire thing would be gobbled up within seconds. Then he would search for chocolate bars or a comb of bananas and walnut muffins (he would momentarily pause to pick out all the bits of walnut to feed his hamster), and those too, would be scoffed up without a trace. It’s like he swallowed the whole universe and yet his hunger just grew and grew. But the weird thing is—no matter how much he ate, he remained scrawny.

 

They sent him to the hospital to undergo a series of tests once, where he stayed for three days. The first day, he grew hysterical when they pried Bambam out of his hands. He would throw everything within reach against the wall, making a din and disturbing the other patients until they finally relented and returned his pet to him. Only then would he lean back against the bed, Bambam safely tucked in his lap as they took one blood sample after another. By the second day, both his forearms were numb from all the entry marks where the syringe pierced through his skin. He imagined that must be how Bambam felt before he took him home from the pet store, where interested customers must have peeked and probed against the glass at the terrified hamster. He was discharged on the third day, and it was another week before the test results came out with nothing out of the ordinary. He just happened to have an enormous appetite—one that seemed to require an Augean effort to be fulfilled.

His never-ending appetite was probably one of the reasons why he was moved from one foster home to another more frequently compared to the other kids. Funds were running low and most caregivers found it difficult having to fork out the same amount of money necessary to sustain three or four kids for one hungry kid who never seemed to be full. Most of his foster parents labelled him as a difficult child—he rarely responded to their attempts at conversations and would just stare ahead and kept munching, much like his hamster which refused to be petted by anyone else. A few months later, the similar phone calls would be made and by the time Ellen’s familiar blue Ford rolled down the drive, he would be waiting, his bag all packed and Bambam’s cage placed by the door. He never looked back at all the houses and it's living rooms in which he didn’t fit in.

His monstrous appetite also got him into more than his fair share of scuffles. He was beaten a lot by the other kids for finishing their share of snacks all by himself. Hunger was prevalent in everyone, and Mark overstepped the boundaries more so than others. He rarely fought back—he was guilty, after all. It’s okay, he thought, as he glanced to check that Bambam was safely tucked inside his hamster ball and hidden beside an old shoebox under his bed. Then he took a deep breath and mentally prepared himself for the incoming blows rained upon him, as they repeatedly kicked him in the stomach and punched him like a baker punching the air out from a dough. _It’s okay, everything is okay—hey Bammie, we’re okay, right?..._

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Fate decided to give him a break when he was twelve, in the form of nice foster parents. The ones that came before and after were mostly indifferent towards him, but the Garcias were a rare breed—they made him feel like he was wanted, and he has never felt he was truly wanted before in other homes. In their mid-forties, the couple had been childless for twenty five years and were more than happy to welcome him into their suburban home, despite them thinking that the preteen was too quiet, and eat perhaps a little too much—even for his age.

Mrs. Garcias ran her own food delivery service from home, so the Garcia’s kitchen was always filled with the aromas of Mexican food, its smell wafting upstairs and tantalising Mark’s taste buds as he tried to focus on his homework. Most days he would grab his books and set himself down at the countertop just so he could see Mrs. Garcia working in the kitchen. Most days that meant digging his teeth into beef empanadas as he was figuring out another math problem or finishing an essay on the American Revolution; the cheesy pockets of beef juices, tomatoes and jalapenos exploding in his mouth like the fireworks on Fourth July. Every alternate Friday night, Mrs. Garcia would serve turkey and shredded beef enchiladas with mole sauce atop tomato rice and beans and the scent of sautéed garlic, cumin and jalapenos were more than he could bear, as he helped in the kitchen. Lunch box usually meant beef quesadillas, baked buffalo chicken nachos and gorgonzola sauce or chicken and corn chilaquiles, with huevos diablos and grilled corn for snacks. Suffice to say that while living with the Garcias, he was never left hungry and for a year, things appeared on the front to be normal. He attended school, ate all his vegetables (even the mini corns and broccolis), attended sports practise and laughed appropriately at all the funny jokes. He made a couple of friends, but none that he would seek out to have lunch with. He pretty much tried to behave and do all the things that he believed a normal twelve-year-old kid with nice hard working parents would act and do.

 

Mr. Garcia was a high school coach and it was him who suggested that Mark diverted his energy into athletics. He would tag along to Mr. Garcia’s weekend training sessions and soon enough, he was able to memorise the rules of running and long jump—those were his favourite. It was as if he could run until the far end and fly into the sky.

“Fear has no place in the field, Mark!” Mr. Garcia would shout from the side lines and moments later Mark would be sprinting and hurling himself into the air, momentarily suspended from gravity.

But try as he might, no matter how fast he ran or how high he jumped, the perpetual hole in his chest never seemed to stitch itself, _not even close._

 

 

* * *

 

 

Mark left the Garcias the day he came home to a lifeless Bambam.

That afternoon, he ran up the stairs in a flash, rushing into his room and dropping his bag by the door, eager to share his excitement. “Bammie! You wouldn’t believe what happened today! So we had to carry out this experiment in science class today, and I was mixing this weird concoction of vinegar and— _Bam?”_

Cautiously, he approached the cage. “Hey Bammie—wake up…”

Bambam liked to play dead sometimes, and he has been fooled countless times, as the hamster sprung back to life, its whiskers twitching cheekily.

“Bammie?—it’s not funny, you know.” He poked a forefinger at the hamster’s side.

He took the hamster out from his cage and suddenly, a pebble seemed to lodge itself in his throat—Bambam was stiff as stone.

 

Mark realised how tiny Bambam really was as he cupped the stiff body in his palm. He held it for a while, stroking and memorising how it felt to hold the miniature creature that has given him so much, for the final time. Then he gently laid Bambam in a shoebox lined with a dark blue handkerchief and stormed out the front door. He walked until the far end of the street and waited under the blazing heat for the bus to arrive. When the orange coloured Metro bus pulled up ten minutes later, he settled himself into a window seat at the very back, setting the box in his lap. As the bus lurched forward, he held the narrow box that contained his best friend with much care. _Did it hurt, Bammie? Why..why didn't you wait for me?_

 

Hours later, it was Ellen who found him, sitting on a swing in his old neighbourhood. He was munching on a Krispy Kreme, eyes staring straight ahead without acknowledging her presence.

His bedtime has arrived and passed, but he felt no need to rush back and slip under the warm covers only to stare at Bambam’s empty cage. _Not yet—perhaps…perhaps never._

“…Hey, kiddo. You’ve sure grown up—I almost couldn’t recognise you.” Ellen said as she settled into the empty swing next to him.

“Yeah? Seventh grade kinda does that to you.” He mustered a weary smile.

“Well, kids in seventh grade usually don’t get to stay out alone in an empty playground at two in the morning.”

“…”

“So…want to tell me what happened?”

“Not really.”

“Okay—I’m cool with that. I’ll just keep you company until the cops come—or until you—”

“How’d you know where to find me?”

“…Well, you’re not exactly the first kid I’ve worked with…there’s a pattern.”

“Yeah? What kind of a pattern?”

“I call it the salmon run—ever heard of such thing?”

Mark shook his head, intrigued now.

“See, salmons are unlike any other fish. After spending two to four years in the ocean, they would start the long and dangerous journey back to the upper reaches of rivers where they were born. They’d swim upstream, facing predators like sharks, whales, sea lions—then bears and eagles. And ferocious currents too.”

“Why?”

“To create new lives. To spawn. To die.”

“To die?”

“Yup.”

“Why?”

“It’s just their way of doing things.”

“How’d they know where home is?”

“No one knows for sure—but scientists said they have this inbuilt sensory system that helped them find their way in the ocean by sensing the earth’s magnetic field. One day when it’s time, they’d just be summoned back to the rivers and streams where they were born and that’s it.”

“They’d just go home, breed and then die?”

“Yeah, pretty much like that. But that’s not the point of the story. See, not all salmons managed to make it home.”

“How come?”

“Bad weather. Fishermen. Grizzly bears and strong currents—just normal everyday enemies of salmons.”

“Oh.”

“Some died en route, but those that made it home—they’re not really in their best condition, you know? Some ended up with torn fins and bleeding underbelly from jumping over rocks and negotiating over waterfalls.”

“Why go through all that? Can’t they just stay in the ocean?”

“That’s why they’re called salmons, I guess. Because they leapt over all those obstacles. See, salmo is a Latin word, from salire—it means ‘to leap’,”

“Oh..”

“…”

“…Ellen?”

“Yeah..”

“Do you…—do you think I’ll ever make it?…home, I mean..”

“I’m not sure, kiddo. Only you know the answer to that question.” She smiled at him then.

His eyes canvassed the grounds, beyond the bushes and beyond the red-tiled roofs of his old neighbourhood.

“…They painted it over—our house. It’s no longer the soft blue that Mommy liked. Some other boy lived in my room now—do you think he might find that secret space? The one between the bed and the dresser, where I hid my stash of coins?”

“It’s been a couple of years, Mark. Who kn—”

“I buried him beneath the wisteria in the backyard. I think he’d liked it there.”

“What?? Who?”

“Bammie…”

“Oh…”

“I…I couldn’t bear leaving him anywhere else, Ellen. It..it was his home too.”

“...”

They sat there for quite some time, not saying anything but just swinging softly, the chink of the swings grunting underneath their combined weight. Mark inhaled the once-familiar mix of musk and jasmine that lingered around Ellen and allowed himself to lean sideways into her shoulders. She said nothing, but she patted the top of his head when he was done, pretending not to notice that her long-sleeved knit-jersey was drenched with his tears.

“So…you ready to go home? They’re really worried about you, you know.” She stood up and offered him a hand.

Mark said nothing, but he placed his hand in Ellen’s palm and together, they left the deserted playground.

 

The boy's stomach kept grumbling like a slow thunder as they walked towards the car, so Ellen decided that a slight detour to the nearest In-N-Out would do no harm. But she wasn't prepared for the spectacle that unfolded in front of her, as Mark ordered enough to feed four or five adults and snapped every morsel up. It seemed to Ellen that the boy was trying to eat his way out from grief, but she knew better than to point it out to him.

“Ellen?” Mark asked, while sipping on a chocolate milkshake. The look in his eyes alone told Ellen that she was not going to like what he had to say.

“Yeah?”

“Can I not go back?”

His voice sounded so small, so numb, and for a moment Ellen remembered the exact voice asking a similar question to her three years ago, when they arrived at his first foster home— _Ellen, can I please not go in? I’m…I’m scared—I don’t know anybody in there._ Ellen glanced across the table, noted the boy’s downcast eyes—as if afraid to hear what she has to say to his request.

“Why? They seemed like genuine folks—you don’t like it there?”

“I like them…but…Bam’s not there—I.. I just can’t go back..can’t you…can't you work something out, please?”. His please sound desperate, even to his own ears.

“You’re not left with many options, kiddo.”

“I know…but I can’t go back either..” The boy said as he shoved more Double-Double burger into his mouth.

Ellen said nothing as she bit into her swollen fries and mulled over the request.

 

Five days later, Ellen drove him to another group home across town as Mrs. Garcia sobbed into her husband’s silent shoulders, wondering where she went wrong with the lost boy with hungry eyes.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

It was no secret that the longer a child is left in foster care, the bigger the possibility of that child remaining in the system until he or she reaches adulthood. As the years went by, the chances of him or her getting adopted and thriving in a safe environment diminishes. And by fifteen, Mark was simply too old, too risky to be adopted. He was labelled as the one prone to flee the nest when the environment becomes unstable—and for some people who were looking into adopting a child they can call their own, a boy like Mark just became too much work. So he became another statistic on the periphery of the foster system. The in-between, the ones that fell through the cracks, the forgotten ones mostly because they grow too old too fast, too stubborn to be tamed and moulded into the cookie cutter family of white picket fences and OCD lawn of the great American dream of 2.5 family. He has tried, God knows he has tried. He tried fitting himself into jigsaw puzzles of happy families and a future full of promises, but each time he did so, turned out he was the wrong piece of the puzzle; the one that never seems to fit anywhere. But one never outgrew needing a family, or a sense of belonging—Mark included.

So he moved from piece to piece, from one foster home to another; the whole content of his life packed in a red Everlast backpack which has seen better days. A few change of clothes, a black Nike snapback that has turned grey around its edge and an old pair of red Converse that he wears when he needs the extra courage and he is ready to be on the move again. Some foster homes were different from another, with better caregivers, better facilities and more fund received from the state. But they all reeked the same; the desperation and loneliness and sometimes hopelessness of its young charges bouncing off from its often sunny-side up walls. Most of the homes were painted in cheerful pastel colours—as if trying to convince its residents that life is bright, like the paint on the wall. But Mark knew it all too well. He despised the group homes, where abuses often went unreported and bullying was just part of the survival game—like him, all the other kids were just fending for themselves. He likened the homes to the transit terminals in airports. He knew none of it is permanent—but it’s not as if he has any particular destination in mind either.

 

At sixteen, Mark could easily be mistaken as just another runaway, the one whose freckled face childhood pictures were circulated on one-litre milk cartons during breakfast; lost but not forgotten. Light and agile, there is no doubt that if he had directed his energy and purpose into it, he could have excelled as a track star. He competed in track and field from ninth until twelfth grade, mostly in the 200 meter and long jump, and he was contented for a while, his lungs about to burst as he sprinted towards the finish line, his feet pounding the track steadily in staccato beats. He leapt into the air like a hunted gazelle and for a moment he felt unchained by sadness, before reality permeated his pores yet again when he touched down on solid ground. But he simply runs, purposeless towards a finish line which he doubted exists.

 

At eighteen, officially he was no longer under the care of the L.A. County. He graduated from high school and was offered a place at the University of Southern California on an athletic scholarship, but he decided to run from that too. Two days after his eighteenth birthday, Ellen brought over a dozen boxes of pizza for dinner and tried to make him re-think his decision, but he feigned ignorance and focused all his attention on picking out all the pineapples from his Hawaiian Chicken instead. Then he carefully arranged all the extra pineapples atop her slice, knowing how much she enjoyed the tropical fruit.

“Always been a stubborn head, huh?” She asked as she sank her teeth into the dough.

“It’s just not for me—not what I wanted to do, Ellen.” He replied in between bites.

“So what is it that you wanted to do, kiddo?” She asked, pulling at the strings of cheese on her slice.

Mark just shrugged, partly because his mouth was full and partly because he himself has no answer to that question. When Ellen was about to leave an hour later, his decision remained unchanged.

“Whatever it is that you decide to do—do me a favour and take care of yourself, will you, kiddo?” She said, ruffling his hair like she did the night he buried Bambam.

Upon reaching the door, she glanced back wistfully at him and mouthed ‘Good Luck’, like she did the first time she accompanied him to live among strangers—except that now it felt like she was sending him away for the last time. It was then that he realised how the years have added more lines around her eyes. He wondered if all the kids like him have somehow embedded themselves as another wrinkle, another line upon her once taut skin. A part of him wanted to hug her back, wanted to say sorry or thank you or whatever, but he was scared that he would break if he did so. So he swallowed the pizza, wondering since when he has blurry vision and why the pizza was too salty.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Homelessness is a global issue; one that haunts even Hollywood, despite its glitz and glamour and the endless string of aspiring young starlets. Each night, many Angelinos sleep on the streets, contributing towards the estimated statistic of more than 100 million people worldwide who are all homeless. Mark knew this very well because at the blooming age of 18 years, 6 months and 27 days old, he became one of its statistics.

He took up a few jobs here and there, enough to sustain himself and pay for his food. He worked at a construction site during the day, mixing cement and climbing the scaffolding up to seven storeys from the ground. Sometimes he would pause to take a look at the world beneath his feet and admire its beauty—other times he imagined himself unbuckling his safety gear and falling—just falling because he has grown too tired to fight the dark pull of gravity that kept hounding him from time to time.

Most nights, he slept on park benches in Pershing Square, sometimes relocating to the grass at Father Serra, depending on his workplace for the day. He would stare up at the night sky and try to look for the hidden stars in the galaxy, wondering if one would ever fall down to earth and take him far far away. He raised one hand up, tried to hold the minute star in his grasp but often times he would fail. He lived like that for 17 months, 12 days and 15 hours; moving from the open sky to a deserted shade when it rained and moving back to sleep under the sky on warm nights when the stars were more visible than usual.

 

Until one day, he was lying on a secluded bench when a fallen star chanced upon him.

 

  
_**\- To be continued -** _


	2. Nothing Left to Lose

 

I die every time you walk away  
Don't leave me alone with me  
See, I'm afraid  
Of the darkness  
And my demons  
And the voices  
Saying nothing's gonna be OK

-Lyrics taken from **_Don’t Bury Me_** by Alex Hepburn-

 

 

“Mark, is that you?” A stranger’s husky voice broke through his thoughts as an unfamiliar face peered down at him in curiosity.

He raised himself into a sitting position, met a set of warm dark eyes. _Too warm_ , he thought. _Now, where have I seen those eyes before?_

The stranger was about his height, probably around his age too. He was dressed too clean, too crisp to be just another newbie in the homeless land. Heck, he was way too cheerful to be a guy who lives on the streets; his eyes glinting down at Mark like the stars in the galaxy. A turtle key chain was hanging from his side pocket, probably linked to a set of house keys, keys which Mark could only dream of.

“You’re Mark, right? Don’t you remember me?” Warm-dark-eyes asked while Mark racked his brain, trying to recall the unfamiliar face from a lost memory.

“It’s been years and years, Mark! I never thought I would see you again!” Warm-dark-eyes hugged him then, seemingly happy. Mark winced as the air was squeezed through his lungs, before untying himself from the tight embrace.

A flicker of hurt was reflected in the stranger’s eyes, making Mark feel guilty for some unknown reason. But if he was upset, he allowed it to be displayed for only a brief second, before he gathered his smile and tried again.

“Don’t you recognise me? It’s me—Jackson!”

He blinked upon hearing the name— _Jackson…Jackson—do I know a Jackson?_ His breath hitched when it all clicked. It wasn’t just any key chain that was hanging from the stranger’s pocket, but a Squirtle keychain, as his mind recalled images of little Jackson who used to drag his Squirtle plushie everywhere in the foster home. Little Jackson who bit upon his lower lip hard, sometimes drawing blood when the other boys called him a crybaby. Little Jackson who went running from one boy to another, trying to catch his Squirtle as they tossed the toy amongst them…

 

“Give it back!”

“Try getting it then, Jackson! Maybe if you’d grow taller, you might be able to catch it!”

“I said—give it back! Or else I’m going to—”

“Going to do what? Run to JB and boo-hoo cry on his shoulders?”

“I didn’t cry!”

“You do too. Come on, can’t you fight your own battles now that JB’s not here? He left you too, didn’t he? Just like Brownie did! Boo-hooo!”

“He did not! And give my stuff back!”

“See, this is why they all leave you, Jack—coz you’re a huge pain in the ass!”

“I’m not!”

“Uh, huh! Yes you are! The only reason JB hang around was coz he pitied you, or else you’ll only have stupid Squirtle here as your only friend.”

“Squirtle’s not stupid!”

“Squirtle is stupid—just like you!”

“Shut up and give it back!”

“Stupid Jackson with his stupid Squirtle!”

“Squirtle is not stupid…and….and…fu—fuck you!”

“What did you just say? Did I just hear you swear at me, dumbass?”

“My momma got me that Squirtle coz…coz she said—”

“Your momma’s a freaking addict—she’s in rehab again, isn’t she?”

“…”

“See, even your own momma would prefer drugs over you.”

“…”

“What’s wrong, Jack—cat got your tongue? I’m right, am I not?”

“She’s not an addict…she’s…she’s just sick.”

“That’s what they told you? Come on, Jack. You can’t be that stupid. She’s a whore and an addict! Does she even know who your daddy is?”

“…”

Mark was sitting at his usual place by the window, pretending to ignore the whole fiasco. He bit into a mini baguette, tearing a piece of the pastry off with his teeth and shoved some of the broken pieces towards Bambam who kept running back and fro on the window sill. He didn’t want to draw attention to himself any more than normal—the little boy can handle his own problem. But then he made the mistake of glancing over his shoulder, and caught Jackson’s dark brown eyes. A certain look passed over the younger boy’s face; the change was subtle, but its brokenness echoed across the room; a brokenness which he couldn’t ignore, no matter how much he wanted to, because it struck too close to home.

 

He calculated for a while, taking in the three bigger boys surrounding Jackson and knew that should he choose to intervene, he would probably end up being beaten black and blue. Still, he left the half-eaten baguette by the window and walked over to where the rowdy boys were. He guessed their next movements as they continued to toss Jackson’s prized possession around and intercepted, catching the plushie in mid-air.

“Hey, mind your own business, man. We’re just having some fun here.”

“Yeah?—It didn’t seem fun to Jackson.”

“What’s your problem, newbie? You got issues with us?”

“No—but I got issues with bullies.” He replied, as he handed Squirtle back to its rightful owner.

The boy made a face and swung a fist at him. Mark easily ducked the blow, his reflexes quick and easy. Another boy tried to do the same, but Mark managed to dodge him too. The third boy tripped on his own feet as he was running towards Mark, crashing hard onto the floor. He glared up at Mark, then at Jackson, who was wiping one eye with his sleeve. Mark realised what he was about to do, as the bully changed his target to unsuspecting Jackson. He tried to warn Jackson, but the other boy was faster. Jackson cried out in shock as he fell against the wall, the bully crashing into him. Squirtle landed near his foot, unhurt. The other boy smirked and kicked his victim in the stomach with vengeance before walking away, looking back at Mark as if to say— _see what you made me do._

Angered, Mark moved to help the younger boy when a figure bypassed him, reaching Jackson first.

“What did you do to him?” JB glared up at him.

“I was just trying to—”

“It’s not his fault, JB—he was just helping—” Jackson winced in pain and pointed a finger at the other boys who were now looking anxious in JB’s presence.

Mark witnessed as the next scene unfolded itself in horror. He has never seen a raging bull up close, but that day, JB reminded him of one. He stood there transfixed as the screams began, while JB rained endless punches and angry kicks upon the three boys. They tried to gang up on him, one even climbing upon his back in their attempts to shackle him down, but JB just shake him off as if he weighed nothing. It took him a while before the realisation that JB was not going to stop hit him like cold water splashed into his face.

“Let me go!” JB struggled to get free as Mark grabbed him from behind.

“You’re gonna kill them!” He glanced worriedly towards the boys who were groaning on the floor. He almost felt sorry for them.

“I don’t want to hurt you, so you’d better let me go! These bastards deserve whatever’s coming to them!”

“It’s not them that I’m worried about, damnnit! Hold yourself toge—” He struggled to keep his grip on the other boy. JB was bigger and taller than him, and a furious JB proved to be almost impossible to contain.

“JB, let’s just go—you’re gonna get into trouble again because of me...” Jackson’s small voice broke through the verbal exchange, his fingers tugging at JB’s long-sleeve in desperation.

JB stopped struggling then and Mark could feel the tension easing itself from his body as the other boy began to calm down. Gradually, he loosened his gridlock when he was convinced that the murderous intent was gone from JB's mind.

“Stay away from us, Tuan. I might just knock your teeth out the next time this happens again.” JB muttered under his breath, before turning his attention towards Jackson.

“Who said it’s because of you, you fool?” He smiled as he ruffled the top of Jackson’s hair and for a moment, Mark saw the boy for who he was; all innocent smile and full with warmth. No doubt that he was forced to grow up beyond his years into the sullen boy that always kept an eye out for Jackson. Mark watched in silence as they walked out from the room, Jackson looking back apologetically at him.

He came across them again from time to time, mostly in the hallway or during lunch and dinnertime. Jackson would slip the random cookie or two into his pocket as a treat for Bambam, but JB remained indifferent to him.

 

“So—what are you doing here?” Jackson asked as he looked around the park.

“…I..well, I live here.” He shrugged. He didn’t know how else to explain it to the other guy.

Jackson noted Mark’s few possession; the red Everlast bagpack, the bottle of clean water and realised that Mark meant exactly what he said.

 

* * *

 

That night, he slept in a warm bed in the spare room. Just being able to sleep indoors and to wash in a private space instead of a public washroom felt amazing. He wasn’t exactly sure how Jackson managed to convince him, but after a good Chinese takeout and a long shower, he was too tired to contemplate on that. He’ll just go to sleep and think about tomorrow when he wakes up. He hasn’t slept in a bed for the longest time— _tomorrow can wait._

 

Next morning, he woke up early, wanting to make breakfast and repay Jackson for his kindness. He was pouring some flour into a bowl when something warm and furry brushed itself against his ankle, purring softly while doing so. Surprised, he glanced down to see a Siamese kitten rubbing her head vigorously against his feet. He picked it up, noticed the collar with the heart-shaped locket that reads **NORA** strung around her neck.

“Morning, Nora—so I guess you’re Jackson’s, huh?” He asked as the kitten nuzzled its head against his shoulder in response. Gently, he placed her down and watched as Nora sauntered to a red bowl placed in a corner of the kitchen. The kitten mewed again, one paw stretched outward, indicating the empty bowl.

“Erm…you’re hungry, I guess?”

Another soft mew. _Very._

He rummaged through the kitchen cabinet and found a couple cans of tuna. Soon, the kitten was lapping up her meal in fervor while Mark whipped up some eggs. Both four legged creature and human were focused on the task at hand when the front door opened and someone walked in unannounced. Spatula in hand, Mark turned around and came face-to-face with a broad-shouldered guy in ripped grey jeans and a maroon leather jacket. The stranger looked equally surprised to find him standing in the kitchen, cooking up a storm. A silver earring in the shape of an anchor was hooked in one ear and a pair of wooden percussion sticks peeked out from his back pocket. Two identical piercings sit across his left eyelid as he blinked in curiosity at him. Mark wasn’t able to make out what was written across the white shirt worn beneath the jacket, but judging from the guy’s outer persona, he made a wild guess that it wasn’t a polite word. Nora’s ears immediately perked up and she ran to greet him, sidling up against the new guy's leg, as if he was no stranger to her. Mark couldn’t help but feel betrayed for some reason.

The guy blinked a couple of times before regaining his composure. “Who the heck are you? And where the hell is Jackson?” He barked the questions out, reminding Mark of a Rottweiler guarding his grounds.

“..Uh..he’s…he’s still sleeping, I guess.” He pointed his spatula towards Jackson’s room.

That got the guy’s attention and as he arched his left eyebrow, Mark noticed that what he thought were piercings are actually twin moles atop the guy’s eyelid.

“So…you one of his friends or something?” He continued to interrogate, as he swiftly closed the distance between them.

“Erm…not really..he…well, he brought me home last night.” Without realising it, Mark took a couple steps backward, placing a safe distance between him and the new guy. Something about the way the other guy moved struck a warning bell at the back of his mind. He was fluid, like a cat, but the look in his eyes echoed that more of a cheetah’s.

“And how exactly that happened?” He asked.

“I…well—we met on the street and he—uh, well he—”

“He just invited you home, right? Fed you and all?”

“…Uh, yeah…kinda.”

“That figures. Sounds like something he would do…but you know what?”

“..Wh—what?”

“I’m not as generous as him…”

It all happened so fast—Mark wasn’t prepared for the fist swung against his jaw. The bowl of egg mixture dropped onto the kitchen floor, as he tried to evade the guy’s angry blows.

“I swear I’m gonna kill you, bastard!” Another fist landed on his cheek, and Mark struggled to remain standing.

“Wait!...I…I don’t understand!” His hands went up to ward more punches coming from the stranger.

“Get out of my house! Get the hell out of my face!”

“But Jackson said—”

“I don’t care what Jackson said—you’re leaving!” The guy growled as he pinned Mark against the fridge, his percussion sticks digging into Mark’s throat, cutting off his air.

“Oh, you’re home?” Jackson asked in between yawns as he came around the corner, still wiping sleep away from his eyes.

“The hell I’m home—I was only gone for two weeks, Jackson! Two damn weeks and you’re bringing home some random guy off the streets?!”

“Wh—what? What are you talking ab—JB!! What the hell do you think you’re doing? Let him go!” He gasped at the sight of Mark pinned against the fridge, coughing and wheezing. It took Jackson a few seconds to process the fact that unless he stops JB, they would probably end up with a dead body in their kitchen.

“Move!” The tone in JB’s voice meant business, as Jackson wrapped his arms around the other guy’s waist and tried to pry him apart from Mark who was beginning to turn blue.

“Not until you calm down!” He tightened his embrace and pulled harder.

“I said, move, Jackson Wang!”

“You’re gonna kill him, you oaf!”

“Yeah? Serves you right for bringing home a random stranger! He could be a serial killer for all you know, and I could be coming home to a—”

“But it’s Mark!” Jackson tried to reason.

“What?”

“It’s Mark—I found Mark!” Jackson repeated.

“Mark?”

“Yes, Mark!”

The other guy lowered the percussion sticks digging into his throat, and almost immediately Mark drew in the precious air into his lungs. He doubted whether the explanation meant anything to JB—instead, he seemed to seethe more at the mention of his name. Carefully, he extended a handshake, but JB ignored his peace offering and stormed away from the kitchen, muttering something about needing to cool down. Nora mewed softly and chased after him while Jackson just shakes his head. Moments later, both guys were jolted by the sound of a door slammed shut from down the hall.

“What are you so angry about? You nearly killed someone, for god’s sake!” Jackson hollered against the closed door while Mark held his breath, afraid to antagonize the situation further.

Still shaking his head, Jackson grabbed some napkins from the counter and began to kneel down. “Never mind him—he just doesn’t like surprises, that’s all. Let me help you clean this up.”

 

As the two of them scrubbed the soggy mess off the kitchen tiles, Mark learned that Jackson and JB have been rooming together for the past half year. Jackson is saving up to enroll in college and study psychology while JB plays the drum in an indie band, the RocketBlast. He just came back from a tour for the past few weeks.

Fifteen minutes later, a wet-haired JB emerged from his room and silently joined them for breakfast. He stared at his plate and shoved the scrambled eggs and toast into his mouth, feeding Nora with pieces of crispy bacon under the table. Mark munched on a toast and tried to act as if the other guy wasn’t about to kill him earlier. A few minutes of awkward silence passed while the three guys and a kitten shoved morsels of food down their throats.

“Still trying to swallow the whole world, huh?” JB broke the silence first, hurling the question across the table while Mark was spreading strawberry jam on toast number five.

“..Par…pardon?” His knife hit the floor with a thud.

“Nothing—just wondering if you’re ever gonna be full.” JB directed his eyes to meet his, and Mark detected something akin to pity swimming in those dark orbs.

“…”

“Well, I guess nothing has changed much with you, Tuan— _OOOWW!_ What was that for?!” JB glared at Jackson, who kept kicking his leg beneath the table.

“Since Mark has kindly cooked for us—Nora told me you’ve volunteered with the dishes!” Jackson quickly diverted the conversation towards safer territory, glaring at JB while saying so.

“Hey, how come I’m always stuck with the dirty dishes? And quit using my cat against me.”

“Well, let me remind you again—since it seemed you’ve totally forgotten the fact that I’ve been cleaning up kittie litter for the past two weeks while you’re having fun on tour, you irresponsible smartass!”

“Hey, unfair! It was two days short of two weeks! And I was out earning money to pay for your tuition fees, Dr. Crazy!”

“Hah, I don’t need a degree in psychology to diagnose you with some deep-seated anger management issues! You nearly killed Mark, didn’t you realise that?”

“He’s alive and well, isn’t he now?”

“Coz I stopped you in the nick of time!”

“I would have stopped myself even if you hadn’t interfered, Jackson!”

“Yeah? Doesn’t seem like it!”

“Shows just how well you know me, bastard!”

“If I’m a bastard, then you’re an oaf!”

“That’s the best curse word you can come up with?”

“Oaf! Oaf! Oaaafff!”

 

Mark watched as the two of them banter back and forth, suspecting that it's part of their daily routine. He couldn’t help but feel alienated as if he was a voyeur peering into someone’s window and peeking into a slice of their life—a slice in which he doesn’t belong. Nora pranced upon JB’s lap and began nibbling at his owner’s half eaten toast, enjoying herself amidst the repartee. Mark swallowed his; the strawberry jam tasted like bitter truth.

 

Living in close quarters with the two guys from his past, Mark began seeing them in a new light. He noticed how JB would always turn down his music or pocket his earphones when Jackson plopped down on the two seaters next to him, knowing that the other guy wanted to discuss another theory-of-the-day with him—the same way he noticed JB’s brows furrowed with displeasure whenever Jackson turned his attention away from him and began engaging Mark in their conversation. Shortly afterward, JB would leave the room, muttering something about band practice while Jackson continued to chat animatedly, oblivious to the tension in the air. JB would roll his eyes upwards whenever Jackson began to crack up some lame jokes, but Mark was sharp enough to notice how JB tried his best to hide his smile beneath a cough during the climax of Jackson’s joke marathon. He has no doubt that JB has memorised all of Jackson’s lame jokes by heart, not that thick-headed Jackson seemed to notice.

 

Jackson introduced Mark to an acquaintance who owned a pet store, and after a brief interview, he was hired as a store assistant. The pay wasn’t much, but there was just something about being surrounded by other living beings that seemed to calm his nerves. Oftentimes he would linger a little longer than necessary near the encasement that housed the various breeds of hamsters; remembering a long-lost friend of his childhood days.

JB frequented the store often, dropping in to buy some treats for Nora. He would pick his items and head to the cashier without so much acknowledging his presence; just a small nod in Mark’s direction if their eyes happened to meet across the store. Mark quickly learned that the less interaction that they have, the better.

“Nora prefers Fancy Feast to raw hamster, just so you know.” JB commented once, after catching Mark staring at the hamsters yet again, a wistful smile spreading itself on his face.

“…”

“I mean…you could bring home one, if you’d like to.”

“…I..I wasn’t—”

“Bambam, right? The one that used to peek out from your pocket?”

“I..yeah..”

“Let me make it clear, Tuan—you’re not exactly my favourite person to have around, but I have nothing against an animal.”

“…”

“Besides, Jackson used to go crazy over that hamster of yours.”

“…Oh.”

But try as he might, he could never bring himself to bring home one, and after a while, he stopped staring at the hamsters altogether.

 

Sometimes he overheard the conversation that flowed within the four walls.

“How much longer, Jackson?”

“Sssshhh, he could hear you, you know.”

“I mean, it’s been a few months and last time I checked, we’re done with foster homes.”

“But JB, he has nowhere else to go.”

“Or maybe you just don’t want him to leave.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I don’t know—you think about it. I need some air.”

Moments later, he heard the front door slam shut, followed by Nora’s forlorn mews. JB didn’t have to shout it into his face. He knew he probably has overstayed, taking advantage of Jackson’s kindness; a kindness which seemed to know no end. But neither could he unknot himself from their lives.

 

Until one day, a young nurse came rushing into the pet store. She looked like she has been running down the block, her hair in disarray and her cheeks burning red with the effort.

“I’m looking for a Mark Tuan? Does anybody knows him?” She waved a brown envelope in the air, his full name written in broken cursive atop it.

“I’m..I’m Mark. How can I help you?”

“Oh my god—you’re really here! Thank god!” She shoved the envelope into his hand and told him to open it.

Mark stared at it for a while before tearing it open. A piece of white paper folded in two tumbled out. As he bent down to pick the letter, something at the back of his mind warned him that he was not going to like its content. Still, he unfolded the paper and scanned the words written across its page.

 

_Hey kiddo,_

_Been quite some time, huh? I’m guessing you must be taller than me now. Not sure if you’d still remember me. Heck, I’m not even sure why I’m thinking of you—especially on days like this. Let me tell_ you, _if some quack doctor ever told you that chemo is nothing, that’s a flat out lie. It hurts like hell—not that I know how hell is like. Perhaps I’ll find that out soon, who knows?_

_Anyway, you’re like the ghost in my closet, kiddo. Bothers the hell out of me. So I thought it’s high time I exorcise all my ghosts in this lifetime—you included. So here’s the thing—you’re something, kiddo. Something as in a good thing, I mean. Too bad you can’t see it for yourself. I can’t do much for you, but I want to at least tell you this—give yourself a chance. Just one chance, Mark. Go and do something beyond what you’re doing now. Go somewhere. Learn. Grow. You’ll see that there’s more to this world than just the pain that I know you’re holding inside._

_You’ve asked me before, why I chose to work with kids like you, remember? I didn’t answer you back_ _then,_ _but now seems like the right time to do so. The truth is, because we’re not much different, see? I was like you, and all the kids that have come before and after you. My old man killed himself, did I ever tell you that? Blew his own brains out after he accused me of ratting out on him to the authorities. The police were on their way—he shot himself before they could arrest him, and made sure I was watching. I still had nightmares about him, sometimes. A piece of his burnt flesh stuck to my cheek like glue, and I remember how it smelt like—like_ wet _cigar and all things foul. My mama never could come to terms with that, nor the fact that he destroyed my innocence long before that. She just kept drinking and passing out, same like how she passed out when I was crying and begging for my old man not to hurt me. She passed out on all the other nights too, and after my old man died, she was sober somewhat—but it wasn’t long before she drank herself to her own death—at least that’s how I saw it. The state took me in then. I think I was around the same age when you lost your parents. I’ve been through it—the empty houses, the waiting and guessing for the other shoe to drop, afraid to love, to lose. Afraid to hope and be disappointed, I guess. Afraid to trust and to have that trust shoved down my throat like it was a damn lie all along. Let me tell you this—it’s an exhausting way to live, kiddo. Don’t go down that road, I wouldn’t recommend it._

_So…go and—heck, just go and live, kiddo. Life is so damn short—I know that now. Don’t be like me—looking back on my life with regrets when it was too damn late to do anything about it. I can’t change my life, or where it’s heading—but I can at least offer you some friendly advice, can’t I? No doubt you would hate me for being nosy like this—but well, if you’re reading this right now, it means I wouldn’t live to see you try to be stubborn about it. So, go. Go and find your way home, kiddo. I’d be cheering you from wherever I’m heading to._

_-Ellen_

 

“Where is she?” His hands trembled, clutching at the thin piece of paper as if it’s his lifeline.

“She passed away two days ago—bone cancer. She was stage four when they found out—”

“How’d…how’d you know where to find me?”

“She left a note along with the letter, asking whoever found it to please deliver it to this address. Here it is…” She took out a crumpled sticky note from her front pocket and showed it to him. Beneath the pet store’s address was Ellen’s handwriting which read:

_Tell him I’ve always known—he’ll be the salmon that makes it home._

 

Afterwards, Mark walked all the way back to the apartment in a daze, his feet carrying him forward like a puppet hypnotized. The air felt heavy, the people on the streets seemed like mannequins in a showroom rather than real people; flesh and blood and…bones.

 _Bone…bone_ cancer..

 _Hey, Ellen?_ You gotta _be kidding me right? I mean, it’s a really mean joke—not funny at all, get it?!_

_Ellen?_

_…Hey…_

_Why…why’d you leave me_ too?..

That night, after everyone was asleep, Mark scribbled a quick note and posted it on the fridge:

 

_Thanks, for everything. Gotta go._

_-Mark_

 

He was halfway through the living room before he backtracked and left another note:

_JB,_

_Tell him already, will you?_

 

Then he walked out the door, his Red Everlast bag hung over one shoulder, Nike Cap pulled close over his nose. He petted Nora for one last time and shoved her back into the apartment when she tried to follow him out the door. He didn’t know why, but it was difficult for him to leave. He was getting used to picking up the random mugs of tepid coffee that Jackson tend to leave all over the place after studying, used to talking to JB’s lone cactus on the window sill which he oftentimes forgot to water, used to letting Nora snuggle close to him for warmth when JB was away. He was used to taking care of others and ignoring the fact that there was a long-forgotten hole in his chest. But as the front door closed behind him, he realised that as warm as it was, as safe as it was, it wasn’t his home. It might be Jackson’s and JB’s and Nora’s, but it wasn’t his.

While he was waiting for the bus, Mark realized just how right Jackson was—he really didn’t have anywhere else to go; his compass long broken. He decided to ride the first bus that pulled up and see where that takes him.

Twenty minutes later, as the airport shuttle departed for LAX, he figured he only had enough to buy a one-way ticket to somewhere, anywhere— _it didn’t really matter where you go when there’s no one waiting for you._ If he has to be honest to himself, he has grown tired of breathing the humid LA air that was suffocating him with its memories and nothingness. _Lost..everything is gone…gone, gone, gone._ If he didn't get away, he was afraid one day he might disappear into the Pacific Ocean, never to be found.

 

Moments after reaching the airport, he headed for the news agent and grabbed a copy of the world map. Drawing in a sharp breath, he closed his eyes and took a leap of faith. Once his forefinger landed upon a destination, he blinked at its foreign name, wondering if he should try again. He didn’t know anything about the country, and it’s not even an English-speaking one. He wasn’t sure how much the airfare would cost, or the time difference, or whether they welcome Americans.

Three hours later, he was airborne and staring out at the ocean below from his window seat as the Korean Air made its way towards Incheon International Airport. He didn't know if he would ever return to the States. He had exactly forty-five dollars left in his wallet—his entire savings, or what’s left of it. _So yeah, perhaps never._

 

_-To be continued-_


	3. When Strangers Collide

_Don’t answer me, don’t break the silence_

_Don’t let me win_

_Don’t answer me, stay on your island_

_Don’t let me in_

Lyrics taken from “Don’t Answer Me” by the Alan Parsons Project (1984)

 

 

Mark was two months short of his twenty-first birthday when he first set foot in Seoul, 12 hours 26 minutes from his hometown and 5,957 miles by air. Feeling lost in a foreign city with unfamiliar street signs and a language that sounded guttural, he gritted his teeth and was determined to make it his home—a temporary one, at least. Winter was coming, and as the grey skies floated above Seoul like a giant umbrella while the harsh wind blew in from the river, he realised that he would have to find that home _very very soon._

 

Language barrier aside, the lost and the homeless speak the same lingo, wherever they may be. Mark discovered this when he was renting a small dilapidated room in Guryong, in what appeared to be the biggest (and some would say the last) slum in Seoul. Located in the Gaepo ward of Gangnam, Guryong stood out from its multi-million dollar neighbourhood like a sore eye. The shabby huts contrasted with the high-rise condominiums and posh cars that roared around in Gangnam—but for the next two and a half years, the 30-hectares neighbourhood adopted him as one of their own. The lost young man from the States spoke a smattering of broken Hangul mixed with American English, but the older residents treated him like their own long-lost grandson. He would often join the other residents as they sat around a fire, sharing the cheap watered-down version of soju to help them forget the cold reality of life, while surrounded by shelters cobbled together from plywood, metal, plastic sheets and cardboard boxes that made up the majority of houses in Guryong. As he tilted his head up towards the sky and gurgled the alcohol, he thought about the irony of it all—him sitting in a slum amid some of Seoul’s most expensive real estate, like how he slept on the streets in the City of Angels, where dreams fly high. He thought about how they all had a roof over their heads once, and how certain events like his parents’ death and the 1988 Seoul Olympics have rendered them homeless, exposed to the harsh elements that grew harsher with each year. Something stirred in him then—the need to speak up for the homeless, the castaways, the elderly and the alienated. He thought of Ellen on some nights, wondered what drove her to plough through another broken family, to help another lost child when she herself was as lost as those kids under her care. He wondered if he could ever find it in himself to look back and be reminded of all those years of hopelessness and anger that made up his past—of that he wasn’t so sure, so he stared up at the stars and wondered.

 

Ever the survivor, Mark was quick to grasp that most elderly ladies running the traditional eateries have an affinity for a starving and penniless young man like him. So he traded his American taste buds for an East Asian palette and exchanged his love for jalapenos and cheese with green chilli peppers and gochugaru. The salty and spicy Korean dishes were slightly similar to Mexican dishes, and reminded him of the year he stayed with the Garcias. As he dipped his spoon into a huge bowl of fiery jjampong loaded with mussels, he recalled the spicy chicken soup that Mrs Garcia would whip up for him whenever he was a little bit under the weather. As he struggled to tear up pieces of hot kimchijjeon with metal chopsticks, he was often reminded of cutting into Mexican hotcakes on Sunday mornings, the cajeta flowing unto the plate like warm honey. Mark also discovered that if he accentuated his foreign accent when speaking Hangul, he is more likely to receive more _banchan_ than the customer at the next table. So sometimes even when he knew the exact word in Korean, he would still slip in some English into the mix and act all confused.

At first, it was difficult trying to find places that would take him in. A newly-arrived American boy with zero knowledge of Hangul was certainly no employers’ dream employee. So he worked odd jobs as a dishwasher at a  _galbitang_  restaurant, organising the shelves at 7-11, a newspaper vendor, a kitchen help at one of the rapidly disappearing _pojangmachas_ that dotted the city, and a few more jobs which he couldn't recall—there were just too many, and he was always hungry. He began to pick up the language like how one learns to sew; placing the thread into the needle’s eye, and combining two pieces of the fabric together stitch by stitch. Sometimes he wanted to say something else but another word tumbled out from his mouth, making him sound stupid to the native speakers.

Six years and three different neighbourhoods later, Mark had begun attending humanities classes at Hanyang University while working part-time at a nearby English tuition centre six nights a week. For once, his life seemed to be falling into places. He had a routine, and a purpose, somewhat. He knew his way in and out of the city like a native and was accustomed to the pungent smell of kimchi wafting out from the various shiktangs on the roadside. His life was in order, and he liked that. He spouted Hangul like he has been speaking it all his life, he memorised all his lectures schedule by heart, he knew exactly what train and bus to take to get to wherever he wanted to go and he knew the cultural appropriateness and all. He seriously thought he had it all covered, that he had his life figured out.

 

But boy, if only he knew how wrong he was because one evening, the Universe decided to interfere and show him just how life could always outmanoeuvre him.

 

 

* * *

 

 

**The Boy Who Befriends Darkness**

 

Jinyoung closed his eyes, listened to the whoosh of the passing train in the underground terminal and counted backwards from twenty-three. Invisible caterpillars crawled beneath his skin and he itched to scratch them out—just cut open his skin and take them all out. Instead, he gritted his teeth and reminded himself to continue counting— _where did I stop just now?...seventeen, sixteen, fifteen, fourteen…_ as he shoved both hands into his side pockets and prepared himself for the oncoming assault, as people began to move closer towards the glass door that would soon part open and purge out the content of the subway’s stomach, like his father’s vomit upon the bathroom floor on nights when he drank too much, which were often— _too often_ than Jinyoung would prefer to remember.

 

Sure enough, moments after the train stopped, the door parted, releasing people in all shapes and colours, colours of which Jinyoung couldn’t tell because to him they were all drenched in black; black hair, black jacket, black jeans, black boots, black bag, black hearts—like the darkness that was his constant friend. Some bumped into him, shoving him aside in their urgency to reach home, or to a noraebang session after work, or to meet up with that long-time friend over some drinks, or to a blind date, even.

 

He repositioned the sunglass atop the bridge of his nose, inhaled and stepped in. Here, where ripped scarlet jeans and gold studded leather jacket seemed to be the norm, he could easily blend into the surrounding. Back in Jinhae, it was okay for him to wear the sunglass during the day, the glasses being the favoured accessory of the many Korean Naval personnel that populated the city, his own father included. But when he continued to wear the glasses at night, most people just think he was stuck up, or blind. Perhaps it was better to be blind, instead of closing his eyes to the multitude of technicolour that he knew existed but somehow remains beyond his reach.

 

 

Riding the same green train on Seoul Subway Line 2 from Hanyang Uni towards Singdorim, at exactly 4:28 pm for 1 hour and 45 minutes, Jinyoung knew he was leading a fake life. Because he wasn't supposed to be here. He was supposed to be submerged somewhere on the ocean beds of Jinhae, probably a child skeleton covered with seaweed and planktons by now. There would be empty sockets where his eyeballs were once—long devoured by fish or crabs. His flesh would disintegrate, served as supper for the neighbourhood sharks. For Jinyoung knew that he wasn't supposed to celebrate his eighth birthday or the birthdays that came afterwards. He was supposed to sink and disappear into the ocean the night his mother tried to drown both of them. He was supposed to hold to her, as she sank into the depth, her jacket full of stones. He was supposed to fade quietly, without a trace. Instead, he panicked. He fought back. He released himself from her death grip and began to kick, to paddle towards the water's surface. He kicked her hands away when she tried to grab him back. Then he tried swimming towards the lights strung up on the shore.

 

"Jinyoungie! Come back!"

 

"You can't leave me—Jinyoungie!"

 

"Jinyoungie..."

 

Jinyoung remembers the sea as a friend, but that night the sea became a foe. The waves were rough, tumbling him up and down like an invisible roller coaster. He swallowed enough salt water to last him for days. The moon was alone, trapped in the sky that refused to let it fall down to earth. Jinyoung tried reaching out to it— _help..help me. I…I want to live! I WANT TO LIVE!_

 

The moon was gone when he opened his eyes. Instead, two oblong lights were hanging from the ceiling. A constant beep rang in the room, a valve and a tube invaded his nostril, it was painful to even breathe. He wondered if he was in a white hell of sorts.

 

"Why did she do it?'' His father’s voice floated from somewhere to his left, much like a ghost that is weary of life. Jinyoung stretched one hand out, his fingers searching for something to hold, desperate for some attention.

 

"Appa, it hurts." He whispered, cautiously. 

 

"I was only fifteen minutes late— _just fifteen minutes late_."

 

"It really hurts—” He swayed his hands above his face to block out the pain that seemed to originate from above his head.

 

“But she was gone—you too—”

 

“Arggh! Switch it off! Switch it off!” Scared now, he began to throw anything he could grab his hands on, wondering if anyone could hear him at all or if he was merely screaming inside his head.

 

“I should have come straight home—I didn’t know, how—”

 

**“APPA! THE LIGHTS—THEY HURT!!”**

 

 

The doctors diagnosed it as an extreme case of photophobia. Such big words for a motherless seven-year-old who was swallowed and purged out by the sea. All Jinyoung knew from that day onwards was darkness— _the darker, the better._ Colours ceased to exist in his world—they all blended in together.

 

He went through life like a vaudeville movie; a series of exaggerated movements to express his otherwise muted emotions hidden behind a sunglass. It wasn’t just the glare of the sun or oncoming headlights of a car that made him wince and scream out in pain, but even light reflecting off the shiny surfaces like mirrors and granite have the same effect on him. So he wore the sunglass at all times, imagining he was Cyclops from X-Men, who could destroy the people and things around him should he take them off. It’s easier to convince himself of possessing a hidden superpower rather than acknowledging the fact that he was just a freak now, like how most people think.

 

If kids were harsh, he discovered just how cruel they could be when he returned to school with a sunglass in the fall. Once, his classmates decided it would be fun to see just how he would fare without his prized possession. Someone snatched his sunglass away when he was reading while another physically blocked him from chasing after the culprit. The whole class laughed as he scrambled on the floor with closed eyes and began to feel the wall with his hands in search of the prankster. He begged, he threatened, he screamed murder—but no one returned his sunglass to him. The laughter grew louder and louder as the other kids joined in the fun, pointing their fingers at the freak screaming his head off in pain. The joke went a bit too far but there was nothing more he could do as he sat there helplessly; his face buried in between his knees until the teacher came over, wiped his wet cheeks with her shirt sleeve and placed the sunglass back over his swollen eyes.

 

No one dared to steal his sunglass after that. No one dared to befriend him either. No one offered to sit with him during recess or invite him to play dodgeball with them. He didn’t know which was worse; being the brunt of a cruel prank or being left on his own throughout his childhood. So he isolated himself in the school library and built himself a fortress in a make-belief world that felt real.

 

Back home, things were no better. Jinyoung learned early on that guilt, when combined with grief proved to be a silent killer—as he witnessed his father disintegrating in front of his very eyes. The once-proud shoulders of a Marine seemed to shrink with each blackout session, each broken soju bottle slammed against the wall.

 

_“What did I ever do so wrong, son? What did I ever do so wrong?”_

_“How could I not see it?”_

_“I thought she was just going through her mood swings—I never thought…I never…”_

_“She had the most beautiful smile in Jinhae—did I ever tell you that? Stole my heart that summer when I was a cadet and she was standing there by the lighthouse in her yellow dress, the one with the white daisies print. She was just staring out at the sea when I fell in love. She’s was always staring out at the sea..”_

_“She said the sea is like a long-lost friend, calling out to her…what—what kind of friend kills you like that?”_

_“I…I don’t know how to go on, son…I..I just don’t know—”_

 

 

Jinyoung would just sit there and pat his father’s shoulder, for he didn’t know how to respond to all that—how do you comfort a man who lost the love of his life? Many a time when he was sweeping yet another broken soju bottle off the floor, he paused to stare at the lone figure lying on the couch and think to himself that the night his mother walked into the sea, she also took his father along with her. He hated her for that. For leaving him alive and for taking everything away from him; his sight, his father, his friends, his laughter—so that there was not much difference whether he is alive or dead. Once he was done cleaning up, he would retreat to his room to finish his school work. A couple of hours before midnight, he would fall on his bed, his young soul exhausted and weary from dealing with the matters of a world which has disowned him. Gingerly, he would reach under his pillow and pull out a book. Moments later, he would be lost to the world, lost even to the muffled sobs of his drunken father muttering “Jinyoungie, I’m sorry…” from the living room.

 

 

Cherry blossoms are red, pink, orange and white. Once a year, Jinhae would be full of nature lovers and families who came out in droves to appreciate the town’s cherry blossom festival. They would spread picnic mats under the tree, take pictures as mementoes, walk hand in hand or munch on a kimbap or two under a canopy of flamingo pink. But to Jinyoung, the flowers were all the same. Everything is the same old black to him, sometimes as black as the foul liquid that he drank each morning, and sometimes a little less deep, like muted charcoal in the rain. After a while, he was accustomed to wearing a sunglass all the time, for black contained every colour in it, was able to dissolve everything, even the sea-green soju bottles that his father resorted to to numb the pain.

 

He learned that it was easier to avoid small talks and strangers wondering why he kept wearing the sunglasses on rainy days and at nights if he was occupied with reading. So the black ink printed on white paper became his world, and the books became his shield as he buried his nose in yet one book after another. In a world where everyone’s fingers seem to be practically attached to their electrical devices, scrolling up or down, and swiping across the glass screen, he turned the pages of paper with a flick of his thumb, hiding his broken soul behind the cover of paperbacks.

 

 

That particular day, it was just like any other day of his life. Nothing out of the ordinary happened, aside from the train being three minutes and twenty-two seconds late. Which has never happened before—at least not anytime during the three years he has been commuting between Hanyang and Sindorim. He joined his fellow commuters as they filled the train like water into a puddle, squeezing themselves and trying to fit into each remaining space until there was hardly any oxygen left to share.

 

A few stations later, the packed train began to ease somewhat, as more commuters alighted at the interim stations. By the time it reached Sincheon, Jinyoung was able to slide down into an empty seat, relieved for the kind soul who just exited the train. A dull thud began to form at the base of his skull and as the train left the station, his head rolled back against the seat before settling on the shoulder seated next to him.

 

 

**_-to be continued –_ **


End file.
